I Better Go Now
by The Orange Lady
Summary: There are trolls in Beacon Hills. Literal, people-munching trolls. Derek is annoying, Scott obnoxious, Deaton unimpressed. Stiles has to take matters into his own hands. So why can't he stop mooning after a certain alpha? I suck at summaries.
1. Part I

**PART I**

* * *

It all begins with Laila Hendricks and her nightly jogs in the woods. Seriously, Stiles couldn't give a rat's arse about her beauty and health routines, especially since it was what got all of it started. Nobody should ever go for nightly jogs alone in Beacon Hills. You might think people might have thought better of it after the first couple of thousand mysterious maulings and disappearances, but no, Laila Hendricks just had to burn some extra calories at 2 AM.

And shit, now he feels bad for being such a douche. Of course nobody _expects_ to get bitten by a fucking troll. Nobody has that coming for them. Apart from Derek. Or possibly Peter. Especially Peter, come to think of it. With that kind of karma deficit, he's got a lot of things coming for him.

But he digresses. The thing that started with Laila Hendricks was the troll invasion. Yes. Trolls. Real, big-ass trolls. Who apparently followed her from the nature reserve just out of Riverdale, back to Beacon Hills. Well, scratch that. Not followed, but hunted, and then pounced, and then bit one of her feet off. Because apparently, trolls are into that. They also seem to have issues with spray-tan, which Laila Hendricks dosed them in before passing out. It was most likely what saved her life. The spray-tan. So there's that.

It is sad that the only chick in Beacon Hills worthy of Bay Watch should be crippled, but it would have been very, very sad no matter whom, actually. Because losing feet is always a very bad thing indeed. But after having had to try to pry what happened out of her, Stiles is fairly certain she is dumb enough not to suffer too much from it. He is in fact not entirely certain where the hardcore painkillers the doctors have dosed her with ends and her personality begins. Lydia is accompanying him in the interview, and although she's _this_ close to tearing her head off as well, they seem to be speaking the same language, i.e. sassy bitch talk. Stiles kind of digs it. It's also terrifying.

"Laila, can you tell me what you saw? Never mind how crazy it might sound, just tell us. We won't tell anyone else," Lydia promises harshly, in a fit of normal people English that doesn't involve saying "giiirl" and "like" every other word.

"It was like, huge, you know? Kinda like an elephant or something. Gray. And it had one of these super-tacky gold chains, kinda like a mafia boss? And a tail. It had a floofy tail. The anathe… the anstae… stiologioist — oh, fudge — the sleep doctor says it's just the drugs talking, you know? But I know what I saw, okay?"

"Totally," Lydia and Stiles fills in, in unison. It's the best response to about 75% of what comes out Ms. Hendricks mouth. It's a constant stream.

"And, like, doctor Shara… Shopar… Shaparova said they didn't have prosthetic feet with, like, stiletto heels, and I'm thinking, that's going to be like really hard for me, you know?" Lydia winches at that, not feigned, because apparently that is a real problem. Girls, Stiles figures. Girls and their weird-ass thing for uncomfortable shoes.

But still. It's been two days since the accident. Stiles is torn between calling the Darwin Awards jury and being genuinely impressed with Laila Hendricks' ability to cope. Because that is some Zen-master levels of coping. After being confronted with the existence of supernatural beings and losing a limb, she's slightly worried about her stiletto heels.

When they get out of the hospital room, Lydia turns to him and states the obvious.

"It's a troll. It must be. Did you even know they existed?"

"Nope. I had no idea. But at this point nothing really surprises me. Up until last month there was no such thing as dragons either. I mean, it's in Harry Potter, why shouldn't it be real?" There is no arguing with that logic. Lydia shrugs.

"Well, I hope you find out what to do with it, because I'm done," she says. How does she manage to look so cute, even when she's pissed off? "You have no idea how humiliating it is to be used like this for interrogation. You can tell Derek he owes me for this."

"I thought you and Laila bonded over the stiletto prosthetics? Hey, could you tell Derek that we think it's a troll? He'll never listen to me… Hey, Lydia!" But she's already swished her hair in defiance and is well on her way of power walking out of the hospital. Damn.

Stiles sends a one-word text message to Derek. Better keep it short. It just might be easier for Mr. Alpha Caveman to comprehend and actually listen to something Stiles says.

"_Troll_."

The reply is immediate and makes Stiles strangle the air and make his little 'I'm so frustrated and disappointed' dance that involves strangling the air and kicking it to hell. The attending nurse in the room across glares at him like he's escaped from the psych ER. The reply consists of one word as well.

"_No._"

* * *

"Derek. It's fucking trolls," he says. Tonight there are more important things than '_Hello'_ or '_Get the fuck out of my fucking room, you creep_'. "We've got motherfucking trolls on our hands."

Derek leans again his dresser, arms crossed in a way that makes the worn leather jacket strain over his muscular shoulders. He probably thinks he looks badass like that, the little fucker. Attitude seems to come with the black leather and smoldering stubble. Okay, okay, he does look pretty badass. Stiles can verify that he definitely could drown in those blue eyes, if it didn't literally mean he'd die a horrible death by self-loathing, and possibly mauling.

Still, Derek should know better than to climb into Stiles' room through the window after 3 AM. Because that is the beginning of either a horror flick or a sappy rom-com. And Derek's got no business to look that much at home in Stiles' room, leaning against stuff like that. He has abandoned lurking outside the window, invaded the far corner, and now the dresser. Soon he'll begrudgingly occupy Stiles' chair, and after that it's only the bed left. Oh god. That is sending mixed signals that Stiles would give his soul, a kidney, and possibly a small part of his liver, not to have to interpret. Can you develop Stockholm syndrome for your pseudo-abusive werewolf-stalker? Is it normal to want to climb that someone like a tree and lick his body? Is that even a thing outside of True Blood?

Okay. He needs to stop staring at Derek's throat. Focus. Focus on what Derek is saying.

"There are no such things as trolls," Derek growls. Because The Nile? Yeah, that's not just a river in Egypt. And apparently, not just for Stiles.

"What else is big as fuck, looks like rock and likes to chew on people? This is some Lord of the Rings shit, okay? It talked in Russian to our local Bay Watch chick. Hit speed-dial D for Deaton before bad gets worse. There is a fucking troll in the dungeon. I thought you should know."

Derek glares at him, but then he quickly looks away, shaking his head. If Stiles emotions towards Derek couldn't be summed up as FUBAR, and thus extremely biased, he'd say that Derek looked genuinely worried. He's even using his inside voice like a normal person, and so far he hasn't even thrown Stiles against a wall.

"You're not getting involved this time, Stiles. I don't care if it's trolls or whatever, you need to stay the hell away from this. You need to stay safe. Go to school. Keep your head you do, don't go looking for it. I don't want you hanging around when…"

Stiles snorts and turns to check his computer. Of course he's going to help out. When Bay Watch chick lost a foot on their territory, shit got personal.

"Yeah, good luck with that one," he begins, but when he turns around again, Derek is already gone. Shit. Stiles leans out of his window, but the werewolf is already out of sight.

"Hey, Lydia says you owe her big time!" he calls after him. He knows Derek can still hear him. Damnit, why is everyone running away from him? And why, oh why, does he have to clean Derek's muddy footprints off his carpet at 3 AM on a Tuesday?

* * *

_(Part one of five, will update soon. Please, comment and spread the love!)_


	2. Part II

**PART II**

* * *

As it turns out, trolls are far more intelligent than folklore lets on. When Stiles and Scott go out looking for them, they are hiding. Seriously, the trolls are nowhere to be found, and to be fair, they shouldn't be all that hard to find. According to Laila Hendricks they were fifteen feet tall and built like King Kong. Hiding should not be their thing.

"Dude, how come we're out in the woods looking for them now, and not like a week ago?" Scott sounds sceptical, with right.

"Derek made a home visit and prescribed a large dose of stay-the-fuck-outta-danger. I thought he had a plan to deal with the troll invasion, which he clearly hasn't."

It's just past 11PM. They have been way out there in the nature reserve since sunset. Scott led them to the place where Laila Hendricks was attacked, and they started looking there. There are still visible pools of blood on the dry dirt, but no trolls.

"Since when do you listen to what Derek tells you?

"Shut up," Stiles snaps back. He doesn't want to have to think about that now. Or ever. Does Derek care that much for him so that he would genuinely get sad if anything happened to him? Or is it just plain old douche-baggery to keep him out of sight? Or… Stiles brain needs to shut up. This is not helping. Like, at all.

"I thought you said the trolls would be, like, big? Shouldn't we've found them by now?" Scott whines. "Can't we come back tomorrow when it's light out?"

"Dude, trolls hide during the day. They're allergic to direct sunlight. If we can't find them now when they should be skipping around, how the hell are we going to find them when they actively don't want to be found? Also, if we do it during the day, do you want to explain to Mr. Harris why you're skipping class again?"

Scott shrugs. He's probably wishing he hadn't tagged along, and let Stiles go looking for man-eating monsters on his own. Bastard.

"Why don't you follow the scent of spray-tan?" Stiles suggests. Because, why not? If Laila Hendricks had one traceable treat, it would be that. Scott lifts one eyebrow in disdain, then sniffs deeply. Then he abruptly has an epiphany, because the stink of spray-tan should literally be everywhere… and then he darts off into the darkness.

"Hey!" Stiles hisses after him. "Hey Scott! Hey, don't leave… aw, shit."

Stiles is officially left all alone in the woods with monsters. In the dark. If anything out there would like to chew on him, he'd be toast. Like, literally. By now Derek legitimately has the right to say "_I told you so_".

Stiles takes his phone out and lights the screen so he at least can see where he puts his feet. It's going to be a long walk back to the car.

Then something moves in the dark ahead of him. His first reaction is, thank god, not to berate Scott for being an asshole friend for running away and then giving him a heart attack by sneaking up on him.

Turns out, it's not Scott.

He can just make out large shapes moving between the trees. He stops dead. He even stops fucking breathing. The huge shapes keep on moving. Turns out Laila Hendricks was spot on with her descriptions. The trolls look like a mix between gigant gorillas and rocks. They are shuffling around in a ring, snuffling at each other and swishing their tails back and forth. There are three of them. Judging from the fact that none of them are attacking Stiles that very moment, they have probably not seen him. Not yet.

Stiles does what any modern person would do, and whips out his phone again to snap a picture of them. Well, Hell, it's not on picture mode, but a video will probably be just as convincing to the jury, i.e. Deaton and Derek. They shouldn't need much convincing, but just in case, now he has something to rub their faces in.

It's a miracle that the trolls still haven't noticed him. They keep doing whatever it is that they're doing, shuffling around. But Stiles runs as fast as he can, all the way back to his jeep, and then he drives back to town. He's not taking any risks. He's not going to die because he was eaten by a troll. Also, fuck Scott. He can walk home.

* * *

"So, eh, trolls, huh?" Stiles says and hands Deaton his phone. He wouldn't call his video an Oscar-winning masterpiece, but there is no mistaking it. Deaton takes one look and gives it back.

"Yes. It's trolls." Deaton sounds as unimpressed as he looks. He even threw in a bit of annoyance, which is not that unexpected. "Now get off my examining table, Mr Stilinski, before I need to disinfect you."

Stiles doesn't need to be told that twice from a frigging witch-doctor. He heaves himself down and stands in the corner of the room opposite the one Derek is lurking in. There's majorly bad vibes coming from there.

"You. Went out. To the woods. To look for them," Derek grits. "Are you kidding me? I told you…"

"Yeah, yeah, you told me to stay away. Good thing I don't give a fuck what you tell me to do, huh?"

The muscles in Derek's jaw goes taut and his eyes are so red that they probably would glow in the dark. If they were anywhere else on the planet, Stiles would right now be held up against a wall and chewed on, in a very non-sexy way. Oh god, is it bad to think about being chewed on by Derek in a sexy way? Probably, Stiles thinks, given the circumstances. Circumstances being, well, pretty much everything.

But they are in Deaton's house now. Stiles smirks back at Derek, because he can. Derek admits defeat by running his hands over his face and sighing deeply.

"How do we kill them?" he asks. Good old fashioned Derek to change the subject. Going for the important stuff. Acknowledge that Stiles was right all along? Oh, no. Deaton gives him another unimpressed stare.

"Sunlight works."

"So, like, all we have to do is to summon the sun in the middle of the night?" Stiles quips. "What should we do, drag the trolls out of the sewers during daytime? Yeah, good luck with that. We couldn't even find them. And they are literally the size of King Kong."

"Finding them is the easy part. They probably have your and Scott's scents now. Let them come to you. And there are other ways of killing them." Deaton sounds way too chipper saying that.

"They have our scents now. Great." Stiles voice goes up an octave at that. "And yeah, apparently spray-tan works on them too. But in case you haven't noticed, _Deaton_, that means getting within spraying distance of those things. Do you volunteer?"

"I said, there are other ways," Deaton repeats. "I think you should back off, for now. Let me figure out a weapon to use against the trolls, and then you can go after them. Derek, this applies to you too. Keep your pack away from this. It's reasonable, don't you say?"

Derek may have nodded to that, but if anyone would take that as an affirmative action, they would have to be blind and incredibly stupid.

* * *

Stiles makes the huge mistake of leaving the Veterinary Clinic alone. Well, he thinks he's leaving alone. He should have left with Derek still in sight, because then he wouldn't have had a stroke when he jumps him out of nowhere out on the parking lot.

"Why?" he rumbles into Stiles' ear.

"Holy shit…" Stiles whimpers. He did not just flail and try to cling to the car behind him. Totally not. Thank God the car alarm didn't go off. "What why?"

"Why are you so annoying?" Derek grits. "Why are you not able to follow simple instructions? Why do you have a death-wish?"

He seems dead serious. Like he actually cares. Stiles is about to say '_why do you have a stupid-ass face'_ when Derek tries to put his hand on his cheek. Which makes Stiles jerk backwards in an instictual act of self-preservation, and knock his head against the roof of the car so hard he's seeing stars. Derek quickly takes a step backwards and his hand goes back to hanging limply by his side, all the anger suddenly gone out of him. If Stiles didn't know better, he'd say he looks distressed.

"Go home, Stiles. And stay there. Please." It's not an order, it's more of a plea. Stiles doesn't even know what to make of that. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

Then, of course, Derek has to destroy the moment by sprinting off into the night. A true Derek move.

The real question '_why'_ should be why Derek has the fucking instinct to run away into the woods during every single conversation they have that even borders on being remotely meaningful. Seriously. Stiles is left with his cheek tingling where Derek's fingertips touched him, and he can't help but to put his own hand over it. To keep on to the feeling. And to wonder why he had to be an idiot about it. What if he had leaned into Derek's touch? What was that even? Shit.


	3. Part III

**PART III**

* * *

Of course Scott and Derek head out looking for the trolls without telling him. Of course they do. And why should they check in with him first? It's not like he's been researching for forty three hours with a few brief pauses for school, coffee and mental breakdowns. He has even been a good boy and stayed out of the frigging woods. But no. He sends one text, _one freaking text_, to Scott about the school's Lacrosse championship, and really, he should have known better. Scott replies immediately.

_"__Sryy cnt tlk trlll hlppp"_

Apart from losing it completely, there's only one thing to do. Stiles makes approximately four different traffic violations on his way to the veterinary clinic. He storms in, not giving a shit about the closed-sign. Deaton is in his office, elbow deep in kittens and blankets. If this was literally any other day, Stiles would aww so hard he'd get diabetes. But not today.

"Deaton, they are out there running after those trolls. You and me? We have to help them. Like now. Right fucking now."

"You are kidding me," Deaton groans and lifts one of the kittens by the back of it's teeny tiny neck. "Can't you see I'm busy here? Why should I help after…"

"There's gotta be something we can do. Come on, Ms. Hendricks hurt one of them with spray-tan, I bet you've got something more awesome to nuke them with. Like… enriched spray-tan."

"I've got a spell…" Deaton makes eyecontact with the tiny kitten he's still holding between his thumb and ring finger, and trails off. It's understandable, because of the adorableness. But on the other hand: impending troll-related crisis.

"Okay, hand it over and I can…"

"I've got a recipe that could work. But it is not ready yet. If you want to use it, you can very well help me assemble it."

Deaton spends the following fifteen minutes reading and translating from a book that looks like it's older than the Bible and possibly bound in human skin. Stiles spends the same fifteen minutes biting at what's left of his finger nails and trying not to have an existential crisis. What is he doing? Is he really going to volunteer to have a second close encounter of the troll kind? Sure, for Scott he'd do anything. But for Derek, also known as the guy who kind-of-assaults him and at the same time worries too fucking much about him to make it socially acceptable? Derek, the dude who lifts him up by his T-shirt, and tries and fails to carress his face? Heck, if this wasn't an emergency, Stiles would have to get his priorities straightened out. Okay, that still has to happen, but not now. Shit, he hopes that Scott and Derek aren't dead yet. He needs to yell at them for a while. Maybe kick the shit out of them. Possibly kiss one of them. Welp.

"I've got almost everything we need for this to work," Deaton says and looks up from his tome. He looks worried. Not good. "The only thing missing is dragon's breath."

"…is there any chance of getting that, like, right now?"

"Do you have a dragon I don't know about, Stiles? No? Then I'd say no. Not a snowball's chance in hell. The spell could still work, but it's not a hundred percent."

This should be a hard decision, but it isn't. 'It's not a hundred percent' is about as good as it is going to get in his world. Hell, he got through years with just 'fifty fifty, at best'.

"Okay, let's do it! "

"If it doesn't work without the dragon's breath, you will most likely die. Are you aware of that, Mr Stilinski?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Come on, let's get this show on the road!"

Deaton shrugs, but disappears into the storage and comes back with a big plastic container with smaller ziplock bags in it. He pulls out one after another, and makes Stiles carefully pour them into an empty glass jar. The peanut butter sticker is still stuck to the jar, so as magic goes, it's fucking classy.

* * *

One long cross-country drive that has his beloved jeep screech and rattle, a few well-placed GPS chips and some shit-tons of dumb luck later, he finds the pack.

All three trolls are there. Isaac rodeoing one of the troll's head quite unsuccessably, while the surviving Ken Doll-twin is repeatedly bouncing off another one's back. Derek and Scott are trying to taunt all three, just barely out of reach of them.

Derek suddenly catches his eyes across the clearing. His face goes through a ridiculous transition; he goes from snarl, to slack-jawed and soft-eyed, to naked fear, and then back to snarl. He starts making his way towards Stiles, never letting go of eye-contact, not seeming to give a fuck about the death-fight going on around him. The blood in Stiles' veins freezes to ice.

Then, in a forceful move, Isaac gets thrown off the troll and crashes against a tree. It all happens in slow-motion, kind of. The tree breaks and sends splinters flying through the air. Hell of a thing to get snapped back to reality by. Another troll catches Ethan by the neck and hauls him into a deadgrip.

Which means that Stiles has no time to weigh his chances of survival. It's probably for the best. Giving it some further thought would probably be a one-way ticket to panic attack land. So he does the Stilinski thing and runs into it head first without second thought.

Hey, so far it has worked out for him.

"Hey, shitheads!" he screams at the trolls. They turn towards him. Everything slows down, like a dream. Or nightmare, or whatever. The trolls start moving towards him.

"Stiles, get the fuck out of the way!" Derek bellows. It's more of a roar, really. "_Stiles!_"

The trolls are moving fast, he realizes, they are throwing themselves towards him in a breathtaking speed. But he yanks the glass jar out of his jacket and throws it to the ground, he sees it shatter, and then — light.


	4. Part IV

**PART IV**

* * *

The flash sears through the clearing, like fireworks and a supernova rolled together. It's whiteness defined, and it's blinding. Stiles instantly regrets not bringing sunglasses. Not that they would do anything, since it would be like bringing a flyswatter to a nuclear war. But still. The light kind of makes his ears ring.

Afterwards, everything is way too quiet. Did the blast bust his eardrums, or has the whole damned world just stopped in its tracks? Stiles takes a couple of steps forward, waving his hands before him, so at least he won't walk face first into a tree. Or a troll, for that matter.

"Hey, hey! Did it work?! Guys? Did it work? Holy shit, it worked! Guys?" Stiles yells. He still can't see, but hell, if it worked, totally worth it.

Something slams into him hard, and he yelps like, no, not like a little girl, stumbles and almost falls down.

"_What the fuck was that_?" The something roaring into his ears with the iron grip on his shoulders is Derek. Stiles wished that meant he could chill out from the near-death experience, but apparently no. He wishes he could see Derek's face, because wow, he sounds worried, but perhaps it is for the best that he is temporarily blinded. No use popping inappropriate feelings or, for that matter, boners during near-death experiences. Self-control isn't his strong side.

"Deaton's magic. Industrial-strength artificial sunlight," he stammers. "I don't know. He said it would probably work. He didn't have all of the ingredients. Shit, it probably would have killed us if it had been at full strength. But it worked, right? It worked?"

"Fuck!" Derek is shaking him now; Stiles can feel his claws digging through his sweater. He sounds panicked. "If you do that again, I'll kill you!"

"I can't see. Are the trolls dead? I can't fucking see." There is a rising tightness in Stiles' chest. It doesn't help that he's pinned still by the huge warm hands on his shoulders. He wishes he could breathe.

"Yeah, it worked. Way to go! They're all dead, like stone-ified," Scott chips in. He's standing somewhere to the right, not that far away. "Hey dude, chill out!"

"Stiles, calm down!" Derek sounds worried. Stiles registers that he can see dark eyes and a wrinkled, werewolfy nose only inches away, but it's all too much at once. His heart feels like it's buzzing rather than beating. Something black and tarlike is squeezing it hard. The air in his mouth burns and won't go down into his lungs. He tries to swallow it, but it hurts too much.

"No! Don't touch me!" he yells. But Derek doesn't care about that. Sure, he lets go for like a second, but then he's _there_ again, crowding him against a fucking tree with his arms and stupidly warm chest. Stiles is dying. Literally dying. There's no way he can breathe when someone is touching him. He needs to move, move, move, or run. Yes, he needs to run, and get the fuck out of there. If only he could breathe.

* * *

And then it's over.

It's like rising through a mist. Stiles becomes gradually aware of a mouth and wet breathe against his throat, stubble that isn't his, and arms wrapped tight around his waist. He releases the grip on Derek's neck and lets his free hand slide down to awkwardly pat him on the back. His heart is still beating so fast and hard he feels like throwing up, but it's okay. He's got it under control.

"Hey," he tries to say, but it comes out a hoarse whisper. "Hey, I'm okay. I'm okay now."

Derek doesn't let go of him one bit, but he kind of looks up at him a bit, so Stiles gets a glint of dewy eyes and tight-set mouth. Oh god. That mouth was on his neck just seconds ago. Stiles so doesn't need any more freak-out material right now. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again. His voice is a bit stronger now. "Did you just nibble on my neck?"

"Stiles. Shut up." But the arms pinning him against the tree eases up a little until they are just resting around his waist. The warmth feels reassuring now, not a shade of the sweaty panic left in it. And heck, Stiles is too worn out to even feel awkward about it. He feels like he has finished a marathon.

"I, uh, I want to go home now."

Derek releases him then, only an arm slung around his back. Stiles is pretty sure that he'd fall over if it weren't for that arm. He misses the embrace as soon as it stopped.

"I can take you…" Scott volunteers meekly, but is ignored by the older werewolf. Oh god, had Scott been watching the entire thing? Stiles isn't even sure how long he was out of it. Scott looks worried.

Stiles takes a couple of steps forward, and regrets it immediately. Walking turns out to be harder than usual. Sometime between going temporarily blind and forgetting how to breathe, his knees turned into Jell-O and stayed that way. But Derek isn't far away and grabs him by the elbow, and it gets easier from there.

The trolls look smaller when they are dead and turned to stone. They are not only less terrifying like this, you can see how incredibly ugly they are too. Those are faces that not even mothers can love. It certainly explains why they only come out at night.

It's a relief to know that the pack is all right. Ethan is helping Isaac pull feet-long wood splinters out of his neck and his back. Ethan's bruises are already fading from purple to nothing. He waves at them from across the clearing, and Isaac tries to muster a smile too.

Derek turns to Scott, who is still tagging along.

"You should stay here. Take care of the trolls. We can't leave them like this. Ethan will help you."

"Yeah, probably should. We'll knock them down, turn them to rubble," he says and shrugs. "…Or else someone's going to come along and report the huge ugly-ass statues to City Council. We can't have that."

Stiles is led back through the woods, back to the road. Derek is still at his side, supporting him. Stiles thinks he started talking at him, as soon as they were out of hearing distance from the others. But focusing is still hard, and the world is loopy at best, so he isn't exactly sure. He shouldn't risk talking back, although he'd like to. But fuck it.

"Thanks, Derek," he says. "Real nice of you to hug it out, back there. It means a lot to me, you know. I'm sorry. I just lost it for a while, okay? I know you don't like me, so. Thanks a lot."

He doesn't hear everything Derek says to that, but he stops him and digs his fingers deeper into his arm. If Stiles didn't know better, he'd say Derek looked heartbroken. What had he done wrong now?

"Don't say that. Don't fucking say that."


	5. Part V

**PART V**

* * *

Stiles drifts in and out of time. He's vaguely aware of being led to his jeep, of Derek sitting him down in the passenger seat, then there's a fuzzy period of nothingness, and then he snaps back to staring at Derek's right ear. His ear is back to normal, no wolfey business going on there. Stiles wonders what Derek is saying to him, because although his voice is nice, it's also worried. But then he goes back to fuzziness again.

Suddenly they are back at Stiles' house. He's standing on the curb, the jeep parked safely in the driveway. It's still night, and there are moths fluttering under the streetlamp across the street. Everything is quiet. Stiles has no memory of how that happened, but he rolls with it.

He sneaks into the house, pulls off his sneakers, and goes up the stairs by himself, thinking Derek is long gone, but oh no. The werewolf is already waiting for him by the desk, huffing like a sad steam engine. Stiles collapses onto his swivelchair. Is he ever just going to get a quiet moment after these trauma- inducing nightly events?

Derek, apparently, is a horrid nose-breather when provoked. If Stiles' knees still weren't made of jelly, and his brain and the skin on his face kind of numb, he'd tease him relentlessly for sounding like some monster from a horror flick. It's probably for the best. Nose-breathing Derek looks remarkably much like I'm-gonna-tear-your-throat-out Derek. Stiles is not on good foot with that variation of him, and he's not about to take any more risks today. What happened to hug-hogging Derek? As horribly awkward as that one was, Stiles is missing him badly right now.

"You will never do something like that again. I won't let you."

"I told you, I'm okay," Stiles sighs.

"You," Derek asserts. "Had a panic attack."

"In case you haven't noticed, that's something I do on a regular basis. Most of the time for no goddamned reason. Sure, it's a bummer, but it's not like any of us can do anything about it. Don't make a big deal of it. It's my brain, let me deal with it on my own. Well, me and my therapist."

"It gets worse when you do this. Don't think I don't notice. I can hear your heartbeat…," Derek snaps. Then he gets a guilty look, like he has bitten his tongue to stop himself from saying something even more stupid. "Look, all I need is that you back off. You have to stay safe. Today was not fucking okay. If anything happens to you, it's on me. It'll be my fault. I'm…" And there he goes again. Is everything a pissing contest in Derek's world? There is a huge possibility it is.

"Yeah, yeah, you're the alpha," Stiles finishes for him.

"That's not what I was going to say, Stiles," Derek barks out.

"So what was it then?"

"Stiles, don't you see what I'm trying to say here?"

"No, I fucking don't. It may have something to do with you not making sense. I mean, you're all '_out of my sight, human_', but you keep stalking me! I get that you hate my guts, but do you have to be all sadomasocistic and psycho-stalker about it?"

"Stiles, will you shut up?"

"Saying my name in every sentence won't make me fall for your bullshit, _Derek_."

Which apparently is the wrong thing to say to an agitated alpha. Derek shoves him back in his chair and grabs his T-shirt so hard he can literally hear the fabric snap.

"I can't do this," Derek says. He sounds hoarse. "I can't handle it. If you… if you get hurt. Today was bad. I couldn't…"

"You don't have to fucking care," Stiles yells. "You've made clear you don't want me around. It's okay, I'm okay. I can take care of myself. I have so far, and believe me, I'm not going to stop. So you can just fuck off and leave me alone."

Derek swallows so Stiles can see the stubble bob up and down on his Adam's apple.

"I…" Derek tries to say, and slowly lets go of him. He hesitates. But Stiles' hand darts out and grabs his wrist out of it's own volition. Ding ding ding, another contestant of Greatest Things Stiles Does to Piss Off Death. Derek freezes in place.

"What? Why are you so scared I'll get hurt? You don't give a fuck about the others. Why me? Are you secretly in love me or something?" He had intended that to come out like a macho-style rhetorical question to assert dominance or whatever, but instead it came out soft and low like he genuinely wanted to know. Because it's just that kind of a day.

It's certainly that kind of day. Because Derek does not rip off the hand still clutching his wrist and to jump out the window with it. No, instead he _blushes_ and stares at the floor. Stiles' hand is still wrapped around his wrist. It's getting sweaty, but there's nothing Stiles can do about it but be freaked out.

"Holy shit, Derek," is all Stiles manages at first. "Say something."

"No."

Stiles digs his nails into Derek's arm. He tugs at it. At first Derek is like rock, but then he gives in. Stiles wasn't prepared for that, so now he's awkwardly pressing Derek's hand against his chest. Super.

"So, uh, you're secretly in love with me? Okay, so you decided that was a good thing to do. You must be going through a weird phase in your life right now, like _the_ weirdest fucked-up shit ever. I mean, I'm a catch, but like, we're not playing in the same division of attractiveness here. I'm not sure we're playing in the same game. Or sport. And I'm rambling. Jesus, how haven't you killed me yet just to make me shut up?"

There seems to be something going on inside Derek. He's blinking a lot, clearing his throat, and Stiles is like ninety nine percent certain that he's about to hulk out at any moment. But he doesn't. And Stiles has absolutely no idea of what to do with himself. Or what to do, period. Derek tries to tug his hand back in a weak, _weak_ attempt, but Stiles doesn't let him.

"Wow. This is. This is just strange, you know. Do you want to kiss me or something? I mean, apart from this being opposite day, I wouldn't mind, but… No? No. Okay. O—"

Derek is just there, crowding him against the back of his chair. His hand is tightening on Stiles' T-shirt again. He can feel the sharp sting of claws on his chest.

"Ow—"

Then Derek is kissing him.

His lips are softer than they have any right to be. Stiles squeaks a little, but then Derek bites at his lower lip.

"Stiles. _Shut up_."

He obliges. So Derek kisses him again. He's more forceful now, and Stiles melts into his warmth. The third kiss takes a distinct turn towards the filthy. Derek opens his mouth against Stiles', so what can he do but to slide his tongue into it? He's forced down into the chair, leaning back. The hand ruining his T-shirt looses its grip and slides lower, over his stomach, down and down, and Stiles is so incredibly turned on right now and… They're both breathing fast now, Stiles with his eyes screwed shut and Derek wetly mouthing a spot on his neck. Then Derek's hand grazes his not-that confused hard-on, to grip hard at the inside of his thigh.

"Jesus fuck!" Stiles cries… and that seems to snap the werewolf back to reality. "Wha—"

Derek lets go of him, makes a bee-line towards the open window, and flings his legs over the sill. He stops there, for a while, and stares back at him. If Derek was any other person, he'd be apologizing for being too rough and too damned fast, but he's not. Instead he's frowning at Stiles, like this was all his fault.

"Hey, you come back here and…" Stiles says, but it's too late, he is already gone. "…and finish what you started. Damnit."

And so he's alone in his room again. But Stiles is thinking that if this were to happen every now and then, then maybe, just maybe, he'd be willing to wade through a lot of supernatural shit and panic attacks. Maybe. Derek is still a douche-nozzle for running off like that and being an asshat in general, but…

But perhaps Stiles isn't that pissed off. In fact, he is smiling like an idiot. This time he knows Derek will be back. Soon.

* * *

**THE END**

**?**

* * *

_Hope you liked it! Please leave a comment and tell me what you thought, I'd love to hear from you! _


	6. Part VI

**PART VI: BONUS ROUND**

* * *

Derek is having a hard time adjusting to stuff. He has always been this way, but this new situation doesn't exactly help. He has been hiding out in the old train yard for three days now. Isaac has been there twice, and mocked him relentlessly. He considered going back to his apartment at one point, but he figured that was too obvious. There he'd be found. So.

The train yard it is. This is his life now.

He does his best to not think too much, but the only thing that comes close to distracting him is working out. And he can only do that for so long.

Fuck, why does Stiles always pry things out of him? Derek had decided to never ever come clean about his stupid little crush, he was prepared keep it to himself for as long as it took to get over it. Possibly to take it to his grave. And really, was it even a crush? No, it couldn't possibly be.

And when had it even gotten that bad? Stiles was just an annoying kid, sticking his nose into matters where it didn't belong, like saving all of their lives from trolls, and whatnot. Stupid Stiles with his brown eyes, annoying smirk, and heartbeat like a butterfly.

So why did Stiles push him into coming clean? Hell, he hadn't even done that. Stiles had just assumed right by Derek's own glaring omissions. Stupid, stupid, smart kid.

* * *

The smell hits him first. Then he hears him. He must be thinking he is so damned smooth, but with those shoes? No way. Wet sneakers plus rain equeals horrible squeaky noises from Hell. But who knows, if Derek keeps stoically focusing on his work-out, i.e. punching at the sandbag Isaac brought until it breaks, and ignoring Stiles, maybe he'll go away on his own? He's been quiet for that long, so maybe…

"So. This is where you're hiding," Stiles says. He coughs suspiciously. "Sorry dude, you can run, but you can't hide. Not from me you can't."

"Isaac told you I'm here," he states. He punches a hole in the bag, and sand pours out.

"No… Yeah, he totally did."

"Go away."

But Stiles doesn't. Instead he comes closer, within arm's reach. Derek stops punching the sandbag.

"What, do you regret what you said— well, what you didn't exactly say, but implied by strategic silences?"

"I, uh. No." This is the most honest he's been with somebody for years. Derek stares at the hole in the sandbag.

Stiles takes a step forward, and Derek backs away. Which makes him take another step. Eventually Derek ends up crowded against the wall of a train car. He can feel the cold steel through the T-shirt on his back. But Stiles doesn't stop getting closer until Derek can feel his breath on his face. He puts a warm hand on his shoulder, and Jesus, Derek wants to squirm away from it. But he doesn't. Still, he can't quite make himself look Stiles in the eyes.

"I thought you were coming back that night. But you didn't. I thought it was because you didn't care, but I guess… I guess that it's not that. I'm thinking, maybe it's that you care a lot?"

It's uncanny how well he reads him. Like he is an open, unwilling book. Derek jerks under his touch, meets his eyes for the first time since that night. They are a deep dark brown, and the pupils are wide-blown. It's actually a lot worse than Derek thought it would be.

"Ssh, it's okay," Stiles whispers. "Believe me, I was freaked out too. You'd be a fucking psycho if you weren't as well. We took down some motherfucking trolls. It's alright to be weirded out. But I'm okay now. I've had time to think."

He grabs Derek by the neck with both hands and presses his lips against his cheek. If Derek was having trouble breathing normally before, you could consider him breathless by then. There are a dozen or so light kisses on his cheeks and throat. And then Stiles finds his mouth with his own.

Derek slides down against the train car, there is simply no way that his legs will bear him at this point. Stiles slides with, until he is sitting on his knees, straddling him.

It's hopeless. Derek puts his hands around Stiles' waist to rest on the small of his back and his shoulder. He tries to memorize the sensation, but it's impossible to focus on that since...

"Jesus Christ!"

Stiles yanks his hand away from his crotch.

"Sorry! Too fast?"

"No, it's. Ah, I wasn't…"

"'Cuz I was way outta line. Just, this is all I've been thinking about since, you know… But hey, we could…"

"No, it's okay," Derek says and swallows. Gods know, he's been thinking about it too. Stiles leans in, so they are nose to nose. "Keep going," Derek breathes.

Stiles fingers at his belt buckle, and it's a question. The answer is _yes_, or possibly_ oh god yes_, which Derek gives by helping with easing up the belt and unbuttoning his jeans. Stiles shoves them down along with his underwear. Derek has to bite down a moan when he wraps his hand around his dick. Stiles is clearly new to touching other people's genitals, but after a few awkward tugs he starts to get it.

"Does this feel good?" he whispers.

"Shut up," Derek gasps back. There's only so much multitasking he can do. Between focusing on not coming in two seconds flat, kneading Stiles' butt and being overwhelmed by the smell of them both, there's only so much talking he can handle.

For once in his fucking life, Stiles takes a hint. He occupies his mouth by kissing and sucking a wet trail down his neck.

It lasts for a minute or so, until Derek is arching his body off the ground, moaning with his mouth open against Stiles' shoulder. It might only be a hand job, but in Derek's defence, it's been a good long while since last time. Plus, he's got werewolf metabolism. Needless to say, the orgasm is earth-shattering.

As consciousness starts to creep back, Derek realizes that he's the only one with his pants down. It is a problem. A problem that he'd be more than willing to do something about.

"You want me to…"

"Nah. I'm good," Stiles says. The tips of his ears are bright red. Derek takes a deep breath, and yeah, he's all good.

"Did you…?"

"Yeah, I came in my pants like a fucking teenager. Thanks for the display, though."

"You are a teenager."

"Oh, okay, never mind then."

Stiles climbs off of him and sits down on the ground by his side. There is a thunk when he leans his head back against the train car.

"So. Can we do this again?" he says. "Like, I dunno. On a regular basis?"

"Uh huh," is all Derek manages.


End file.
